


They Say the First Time is the Hardest

by BrighteyedJill



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Isolation, Loneliness, M/M, The sad sad lot that is a witcher's life, Touch-Starved, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:49:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26902405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: When he first sets out on the Path, Geralt doesn't quite realize that means leaving behind everyone who will voluntarily touch him.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 35
Kudos: 261
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	They Say the First Time is the Hardest

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Whumptober prompt No. 8 "Where did everybody go?" The prompt made me think of [this wonderful piece of artwork](https://jerry-of-rivia.tumblr.com/post/623710408539308032/kaer-morhen-loneliness) by [jerry-of-rivia](https://jerry-of-rivia.tumblr.com), so that was part of my inspiration.
> 
> Thanks to Octinary for beta assistance!

The first time that Geralt felt anything like homesickness on the Path was the night after he’d killed his first human. 

He ran several miles away from the place where he’d cut down a man and terrified the young lady who’d been attacked. Kneeling by the side of a stream, he washed the blood off his hands and his armor. The light was fading, and he needed to make camp.

But he couldn’t stand. He hadn’t meant for his first kill out on the Path to be like this. If this had been a training exercise, he’d go back to Vesemir, tail between his legs, and explain what had happened. Vesemir would tell him what he’d done wrong and how to make sure it didn’t happen again. But this was no training exercise. Some things couldn’t be undone.

Before, even when Geralt had done something wrong, even when Vesemir was angry with him and he felt like the worst witcher ever to pass Kaer Morhen’s walls, there was always Eskel. Eskel might sigh at him or punch him in the shoulder, but he’d listen. He’d tell Geralt that he’d done the best he could and he shouldn’t blame himself. 

But Eskel wasn’t here. Wouldn’t be here. Eskel was out doing what Geralt should be doing: killing monsters and saving people. Geralt was alone.  
\--

Late summer had arrived, hot, sticky afternoons and the fields thick with wheat as Geralt passed them, when Geralt realized that he had not been touched in months. At all. By anyone. Crowds parted for him even in crowded cities. Merchant or innkeepers would gesture for Geralt to set down his coin rather than take it directly from Geralt’s hand. No one shook Geralt’s hand, either upon entering into a contact with him or once he’d completed it. Geralt didn’t have the coin to pay a barber, let alone visit a brothel. 

As soon as the thought occurred to him, Geralt’s skin began to crawl with need. He hunched his shoulders as he walked, but the rasp of his clothes against his skin just made the itch worse. At Kaer Morhen, instructors had touched him to correct his fighting stance. The younger trainees had jumped on his back demanding a piggyback ride. The mages had touched him to examine the progress of his mutations. He’d grappled with fellow trainees on the practice field and roughhoused with them in the halls. He’d been clapped on the back, shoved, embraced, pulled to his feet by a helping hand.

And of course, there’d been Eskel, who had touched every place on Geralt’s body, whose bare skin had pressed against Geralt while they slept, who didn’t hesitate to put his hands on Geralt anytime, anywhere. 

But no one out on the Path wanted to touch Geralt. They acted as if his mutations were a contagious disease. 

Geralt had already taken to closing his eyes at night and imagining Eskel as he brought himself off. But that night, he stripped all his clothes off, there on top of his bedroll under the stars. He touched himself all over, running his fingers through his long hair, rubbing down his sides, his belly, scratching at the hair covering his chest. He squeezed his fingers into his thighs, the way Eskel did when he took Geralt in his mouth, and he clutched at his hips, another of Eskel’s favorite handholds. When Geralt at last took himself in hand, he reached his peak with only a few strokes.  
\--

Geralt didn’t leave the Path when winter came. Most new Wolf witchers didn’t return to Kaer Morhen for several years, as it was generally understood that they needed experience and coin more than rest and succor. But oh what Geralt would have given to be one of the adult witchers wintering at the keep: bumping shoulders at the dinner table, play-wrestling in the training yard, drinking late into the night in front of the great hall’s blazing fire and falling over one another with laughter.

Instead, Geralt kept as busy as he could, taking any contract on offer. He saved every coin. 

Once that winter, he retrieved the two young sons of a recent window. They’d been lured off by a wraith just as a storm was blowing in. The woman had accosted Geralt in the marketplace and begged his help, though she had no coin to pay him with. After Geralt dispatched the wraith and carried the lads back through hip-deep snow, the widow let him sit on the floor in front of the fire in their cottage to warm up while she tucked the boys into bed. 

Geralt must have dozed off, because he hadn’t realized anyone was near when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He sighed, reveling in the weight of another person's touch. Then, remembering where he was, he jerked back, and his eyes snapped open to see the widow flinching away from him.

“Some soup, master witcher.” She set the bowl she’d been holding on the stones of the hearth. “You can stay till the morning, if you wish.”

“Thank you,” Geralt choked out. 

The widow quickly backed away.

Geralt drank the soup, wrapped himself up in his cloak, and lay down before the fire. He settled his hand over the place where she’d touched him, which felt as tender as a brand. He took a long time to fall asleep.  
\--

Winter was a lean season, but there were also fewer witchers available, so by spring, Geralt had saved a tidy sum. He knew exactly what he needed to do with it.

Roach had been judged an unlucky beast, as her last two masters had died unexpectedly, so Geralt got her for a good price. He couldn’t say that the bay mare liked him, but by the end of the first month, she at least tolerated him. More importantly, she did not fear him.

She pushed her nose into his shoulder or his back when she wanted his attention. She flicked her tail at him when he annoyed her. And sometimes, if Geralt was doing a particularly good job of brushing her, she would lean into him, demanding more. 

She also didn’t protest if once in a while, on their way out of town after a contract, Geralt stopped on the side of the road, dismounted, flung his arms around her neck, and buried his face in her mane.  
\--

Geralt didn’t return home the next winter, or the one after that, either. He was capable and strong and dedicated, and he didn’t _need_ the comforts of home, not really. He would occasionally run into another witcher and share a drink or some stories. Once he even ran into a fellow Wolf. 

Slava was able to tell him that Eskel was alive, and that he’d mentioned returning to Kaer Morhen for the coming winter. 

“I imagine I might do the same,” Geralt said with a shrug. “If I find myself in the right part of the Continent come fall.”

“I’ll mention that if I run into Eskel again,” Slava said, doing a poor job of hiding his grin. 

Before he left, Slava gathered Geralt into a tight hug. Geralt clung to him with all his strength until he realized he may have held on longer than was appropriate. He wasn’t sure. He’d forgotten what such embraces were meant to be like. 

“I’ll see you this winter,” Slava called as he rode off. 

That night, alone in his bedroll, Geralt wrapped his arms around himself and squeezed until his muscles slackend in sleep.  
\--

Geralt took every contract offered him into late fall. He wasn’t some homesick child hurrying home. He’d learned to be self-sufficient on the Path. Like a true witcher, he didn’t need anyone or anything else. That didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the comforts of Kaer Morhen, but he wasn’t desperate for them. He didn’t need such things the way he had before. 

At last, when the trees in the foothills had all dropped their leaves, Geralt headed through the mountain passes to Morhen Valley. He took the trail at a leisurely pace, as it was Roach’s first time, and Geralt wasn’t in a hurry, not really. He caught sight of the walls in early evening and could just barely make out one of the trainees on watch scampering across the ramparts to report his approach. 

Geralt nodded to the witcher who opened the gate for him and rode Roach inside to find the courtyard deserted. He squinted at the angle of the fading sun slanting over the walls. Everyone would be in at supper now, of course. He was on his own. 

Geralt dismounted and took hold of the reins to lead Roach to the stables. But when he turned around, he found himself caught up in a tight embrace, and he dropped the reins to return it. 

Eskel buried a hand in Geralt’s wind-tossed hair and pulled him closer. He tucked his face against Geralt’s neck with a sound that might have been a sob. Geralt couldn’t pull in a breath. He grabbed onto Eskel and pulled at him as if he wanted to climb inside his skin. Eskel felt warm and solid in his arms, smelling of mountain air and potion ingredients. Geralt didn’t let go. Nor did Eskel. 

They stood, locked in each other’s arms, until they both felt strong enough to let go.

**Author's Note:**

> Join me on Tumblr for more Witcher nonsense: [brighteyedjill](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/brighteyedjill).


End file.
